The Prioress's Second Tale
by Just.Another.Wannabe
Summary: A museum employee is called into Canterbury Cathedral, where a lost portion of Chaucer's manuscript was uncovered.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **I have not written or read fanfiction in years up until tonight. I was sifting through and reminiscing a little. I decided I wanted to upload something a bit more recent. Here is my final paper from a college seminar class about literature from the medieval ages. The assignment was to write a creative piece based off of a work we read. I wrote about _The Canterbury Tales._ Enjoy!

* * *

_Present Day_

It started off as an ordinary day. Traffic was terrible, and as a result, it was nine fifteen when I finally pulled into the parking lot at work. I quickly unfastened my seat belt, got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and made my way over to the entrance of St. Margaret's Church, home to The Canterbury Tales Visitor Attraction. I made my way through the door and up the stairs, pushing through a large door marked with the words "Employees Only". I flashed a quick smile at a coworker as I passed by him, and finally made it to the door reading with my name, Rachel Bailey. Within minutes, I found myself sitting at my desk, sipping from a cup of tea while beginning to sift through emails.

When that business was finished, I leaned back in my chair and sighed. The Canterbury Tales Attraction was the process of looking into some new renovations, and as manager, I was being bombarded with questions by a wide array of different people. I loved my job, but this aspect of it could get overwhelming.

With a last gulp of tea, I spun around in my chair, so that I was facing the window. This office had the most incredible view of Canterbury Cathedral that I had ever seen. I loved being able to gaze at the tall towers, especially on late nights when the sun would set around them. Often times I would walk over to the Cathedral on my lunch break to take a walk on the grounds. I loved working so close to this church. For years I've harbored a fascination with Canterbury Cathedral and all of the history and beauty surrounding it. This love affair with the Cathedral began with Chaucer's most famous work. From the moment I first read the General Prologue of The Canterbury Tales as a tenth grade English assignment, I became enamored with the story. Since then, I've read the book dozens upon dozens of times, both for work and for pleasure, and it has never ceased to amuse, inspire, and astonish me.

A hurried rap on my door broke my train of thought, and before I could turn around, my secretary, Mary, came bursting into the office. "Sorry to disturb you, Rach," she said. "The Cathedral just called. They just uncovered something in one of the towers, and they want somebody to head over to check it out. Apparently it has something to do with Chaucer."

Ten minutes later, I found myself in the Cathedral being led into a small office by the Archbishop. "Please," he said, gesturing toward a chair on the near side of the desk. "Have a seat."

We both sat down. I noticed a stack of antique papers tied together with a string sitting at the Archbishop's right elbow. This was probably what I was asked to look at. He followed my stare and nodded. "Yes," he stated as he pushed the papers toward me. "These were just uncovered this morning. It appears as if they've been squirreled away in this place for centuries. I'm not exactly sure if this is accurate, but it seems as though this was written by Geoffrey Chaucer. With you being so close, I wanted you to have a look at it and see what it was before I did anything further."

My heart fluttered at the thought of this. I carefully untied the string lacing the pages together. Could this really be a document penned by Chaucer himself? There was only one way for me to find out. Gently, I picked up the first page and began to read.

_September the 13th 1400_

My dear Archbishop,

Thank you again for speaking with me on my last visit to Canterbury. Our conversation was very meaningful to me. I know that your conviction of my not being in danger is strong, but, despite what you said to me, I am afraid that my suspicion remains. I was foolish in publishing portions of my tale before it was finished it its entirety. It is evident that people picked up on the allusions I made to specific people in English society, and they seem displeased by the whole ordeal. I just wish I could finish the rest of the tales quickly, so these people could know my real purpose in writing. It is my own fault, though—how are they to know that I wanted to show them that, though they are not entirely pure in character, they are all capable of change and personal betterment?

I fear that this goal will never be met. I have heard rumors indicating that my life is in danger for these writings. I am working on the last half of my book as diligently as possible, but I doubt that I will live long enough to see this through. I have included in this letter a section of the second part of _The Canterbury Tales_, including the pilgrimage itself. If something should happen to me before its completion, please wait until the time is right and release this excerpt. I should hate to have my motives never recognized. Thank you and God bless.

Sincerely yours,

Geoffrey Chaucer


	2. Chapter 2

**Canterbury Cathedral**

It was a glorious morn when my company spied the great spires of Canterbury's Cathedral. We were joyous upon the introduction of this sight. After an hour passed, we arrived at the front gate of the Cathedral. The rain had been bountiful in Canterbury, as I could tell from the lush rose bushes I spotted around the cathedral as we crossed the church's threshold.

In the cathedral, company went their separate ways. Although I was anxious to kneel at Saint Thomas Becket's shrine, I did not want to go straight away. This was partially because it seemed that most of my group was headed there and I wanted to be alone in the cathedral, but it was also more than that. Somehow I felt that I had to become acquainted with the rest of the chapel first. As a result of this, I found myself walking towards the crypt.

I sat down in a stern wooden chair and looked all around me. The crypt was beautiful, with its bold colors and ornate carvings. I ran my hand up and down the pillar next to me, letting my fingers trace the patterns carved into the smooth stone. This was a glorious place for worship, and I could not help but notice those who used it as such. Across the way, I saw a poor man on his knees. Many people had come and gone from the crypt, making noise as they went, but this man was not disturbed. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his body showed no signs on moving any time soon. I studied the man—he was fairly young, with dark hair and a handsome face. He was painfully thin and wore ragged clothes. His lips were moving in a slight yet furious fashion. I wondered to myself what he could be praying for. I supposed that he was a poor man praying for a better lot in life. I kept observing this man, thinking how much of a shame it was that some were forced to suffer so completely.

Just as thoughts of pity for this poor man began to wane, a middle aged woman came bursting through the crypt. She glanced around, clearly searching for somebody. Her eyes fell on the poor man, and she rushed over to him and began to speak. "My lord," she breathed. "My lord, please rise from your knees and rid yourself of these poor man's clothes. You have prayed in discomfort and dressed humbly for your sister's sake, trying to prove the sincerity of your prayers to the Lord. Master, your humility has worked. Your sister has been cured of her ailment. Come back to your manor and see for yourself!" At this, the man jumped up and embraced the woman, who looked startled at the thought.

The man and his house servant left the crypt with joy, leaving me there quite startled. I had been quick to judge that man, and I had been entirely wrong. This led to a silent reflection on my character. I gazed around the crypt, watching the people paying homage walking by. Usually, I would try to explain their character to myself. However, something had changed. I had been entirely wrong about this one man. Had I been wrong about everyone I had judged? This thought overwhelmed me, and I removed my hand from the ornate pillar, rose from my chair, fell to my knees, and silently began my own prayer.

After some time, I rose and left the crypt. As I was leaving, I passed the Parson and the Prioress as they entered the chapel. I found it odd that they were together, as they seemed to have nothing to do with each other on our journey. However, I decided to leave them to their thoughts, and continued my exit. With that, I finally made my way to the Cathedral itself.

Rather than the shrine, I found myself being drawn to the northern side of the cathedral. To my surprise, there were few people in this section of the church. They had were likely too preoccupied with the shrine itself to consider paying homage to this place—the place where Saint Thomas Becket was slaughtered. Slowly, I walked about the room, looking at the cracked and slightly discolored stone around me. I stepped on every stone set in the floor and then looked up at what was around me. I wanted to see the last thing that Thomas Becket saw before he was ran through by a sword. I gently closed my eyes, and, as if I were there, the scene went racing before my eyes. I could almost feel the whipping wind of that cold December night hit my face. I could hear the clanging of metal as those four knights raced through the cathedral, searching for the Archbishop. I could hear the knights screaming at the man, ordering him to absolve the sins of those he had condemned, and I could imagine Thomas Becket standing in front of the very altar that I was currently staring at, never wavering or backing down, refusing to oblige these brutal men. I could see one of the knights, with a horrific gleam in his eyes, step forward and attempted to drag the martyr outside. I saw a struggle, in which those heathenish knights struck Thomas Becket on the head until it finally cracked, in which a poor cleric attempted to save the man but was pushed aside, and in which the brave archbishop never showed a sign of weakness. I could smell the spilled blood, a stench that polluted the room as the knights, who had finished their job, left the cathedral, leaving a broken martyr on the floor.

I fell to my knees in that spot. I brushed my fingers over the stones, my mind reeling from the scene I had just pictured. One thing I could not get out of my head—the reason behind this slaughter. I knew exactly what was going through those four violent minds as they stabbed the Archbishop of Canterbury. They thought it was what their king had asked for. They heard Henry's hypothetical cry, an aloud bemusement of who would rid him of such a meddlesome priest, and assumed that the king wanted Thomas Becket slaughtered. They made a poor judgment that changed Christianity in England forever. Tears came to my eyes as I thought this over. Was this judgment terribly different than the judgments I had made throughout my life? This thought may have been extreme, but the sentiment rang true. Maybe this was a sign I needed—although I had thought my judgments were correct and therefore harmless, a time may come where that will not be the case. With this in mind, I rose to my feet and headed for the Trinity Chapel.

My ultimate goal of making this pilgrimage was about to be recognized—I would kneel and pray at the shrine for Saint Thomas Becket. I entered the chapel and looked around. It was an astounding view. The ceiling was so high that it must have reached the heavens. However, it was not the architecture that most interested me about this chapel. Again, I was drawn to my fellow pilgrims. As I approached the shrine, I saw that there was a mother with her son kneeling at the Saint's shrine. She was weeping, and when I got closer, I could see without a doubt what her purpose was. The boy was infected with leprosy, and I could hear the mother pleading with the Saint to cure her child of his disease. This touched me—people here believed wholeheartedly that this Saint could cure them of their ailments. As the mother and child left, I approached the shrine and fell to my knees.

Were these people wrong? Could this saint really help them? I looked at the shrine and noticed the various gifts left by pilgrims who needed divine assistance. The altar was filled with a generous amount of coins, a remarkable rosary with a grand golden broach, wax figures of arms and legs, and small jars of oil that people left behind to give thanks for the saint for hearing their pleas. This shrine meant a great deal to so many people. I wondered if Thomas Becket ever thought that he would rise to such esteem in his death, or ever wanted it. Outside the cathedral, I remembered seeing various offers for holy relics that were likely false. That may have seemed to be a reflection on this whole Canterbury pilgrimage ordeal, but after the enlightenment I received today, I was not so quick to dismiss the value of this cathedral. I now knew how strong of an effect this pilgrimage could have, for it had affected me so greatly. I had always thought that in making my judgments, I could reveal faults to people and help them improve their characters. However, today I learned that this was wrong. I realized that, in ostracizing people for their wrongs, I was committing a wrong myself. It was not my place to make such conclusions on people's character—that was the Lord's task, and my doing so could prove to be destructive. I reached into my pocket and scattered some coins over the altar. I whispered a thank you to the saint for the lesson he taught be, arose to my feet, and left the Trinity Chapel.

And with what seemed like a candle's flicker, it was time for us to begin our journey back to Southwark. With one last glance at the Cathedral, we set out on our journey. I glanced around at my companions. I wondered if any of them had had moments of enlightenment as I had had, or if it had simply been an experience that they could tell their peers about at future dinner parties. I hoped that they had all seen the errors in their various characters and would adjust themselves to become more holy people. However, I knew now that it was not my place to judge whether or not they had been changed by out pilgrimage, so I simply smiled at them all, and we set out for home.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Prioress's Second Prologue**

Soon after our departure from Canterbury, the Host began trying to revive our friendly contest. "Well then, what an experience! Quite a church, would you not agree? Now then, shall we resume with our little wager? Who shall be first to tell their second tale? Sir Knight, so righteous and bold, would you tell the first tale as you did before? It certainly made our game begin on a high. Do excuse me, but I doubt that you could dream of a tale that would prove better than befo-."  
Here the Prioress interrupted our dear Host. "Pardon me, kindly Host, but is this game in truth your foremost thought?"  
Our Host looked puzzled. "My dear Prioress," he spoke softly. "You gave your word that this game we would play. Did you not enjoy yourself on our previous journey? Surely that was not the case."

"My dear lord," the Prioress said. "I gave my word that I would partake in our contest and that I will do. I only mean to suggest that some in our company may be still overcome with prayer and a pious enlightenment, as we did just participate in one of Christianity's finest pilgrimages. But if the company agrees that it is a time for storytelling and not for pious reflection, so be it. If that be the case, may I offer a slight change to our bargain? For I feel that my fellow clergy member the Parson told a proper tale. We are a band of pilgrims, so our tales should use the lessons that the Bible has taught us. Here is a new challenge—take whichever of the lessons in the New Testament and in your tales, retell them. Then the contest will search for he who best communicates Christ's lesson in a modern tale. This we, we can combine divine wisdom with this earthly game, and it will give praise to God as well as entertain our lowly minds."

She lightly ran her delicate fingers upon her arm as she spoke, drawing my eye towards her slender limb. It was this that made notice what was different about the lady. She was missing her green beaded rosary with her golden broach! My mind drifted back to the shrine and suddenly I realized where I had seen such an ornate rosary prior. It was the Prioress's rosary and the Prioress's broach left upon the Pilgrim's Steps among all the money and oil. As she looked around the company for support, her gaze caught mine. My question was then answered. No; I thought as I looked around at the approving nods from the Monk, the Reeve, and the Franklin; I was not the only one who found Canterbury to be more remarkable than ever described to me, and no, I was not the only one who came away thoroughly enlightened by the ordeal.

The Miller, however, tired from the journey, or, as it more righteously seemed to me, put off by his hours few without any ale, did not share in the holy epiphany that consumed my thoughts. He loudly proclaimed, "I will not accept that challenge! It was never a part of our bargain, and I will not allow a preacher woman to change my tale."

The Pardoner coughed softly and then began to speak. "My dear Prioress," he began. "We have all had a grand experience. However, is it necessary for that experience to bleed into and pollute our game? Can our faith not stay separate from our little contest? We have come all this way for Christ—does that not make our game a tribute enough to our Lord?"

The Prioress stopped where she was, looking entirely horrified at this statement. "Sir, as a man of the Lord, how can you deny that He is a part of everything? He is the force that brought us into being and gave us the voices that we tell our tales with. Should we not use our voices in order to praise him with every chance that we get? It is only fitting that we take this opportunity to thank Christ for all he has done, for bringing us together, and for giving us the chance to see Canterbury and have a holy epiphany. Was that not the experience you found at the Saint's shrine? For that was my experience at Canterbury, and I would like to honor my God for blessing me with such a holy opportunity."

The Prioress looked into the faces of the Miller and the Pardoner. It was evident that they would not concede to her suggestion. Resigned, she began again. "I can see that my labor will not bear fruit. We shall leave our game as it was before. However, if the Knight agrees, I would like to tell my tale first on our returning trip. Although the Miller and the Pardoner do not wish to honor the Lord in their tales, that cannot stop me from doing so. I would like to revive our contest with a more sacred tale, one that takes the Lord's teachings and honors He who taught them."

The Knight agreed to let the Prioress tell her tale, and with a soft breath, she began to speak.

**The Prioress's Second Tale**

_Here begins the Prioress's Second Tale._

There was once a poor farmer named John living in the countryside. The man suffered, for there was a great drought in the land that stopped his crops from growing. John hadn't the money to put enough food into his belly, let alone pay his taxes. Graciously, his old neighbor would lend him enough money to pay his bills every time the tax collector came to visit. Soon, John found himself greatly indebted to the old man. This made him very nervous, for he did not know when the drought would end, or when he would be able to make money again. He feared that he would not have enough money to fully repay what he owed, let alone feed his family. The farmer went to his neighbor to implore him for a little more time to repay his debt. The old man smiled, for he was very kind.  
"Do not fret," said the old man. "I have been blessed with more money than I need to live. You go pray for the dry period to come to an end, and once it does and you earn enough wealth to live comfortably, then you pay back the money you owe me." John was very grateful for the man's kindness. He kissed his neighbor's feet and showered him with thanks. He then returned to his home and prayed for the rain to come, all the while knowing that his prospects were fair.  
Many years passed by. The debtor was blessed with much good fortune. By the grace of God the drought was rid from the land, and the farmer's crops thrived. Because of the old man's patience, John was able to pay off his debt when it suited him. When he finally repaid what he owed, he had much money to spare and the means to gain even more. The once poor farmer became wealthy. However, as the years went by, he forgot his livelihood was a gift from a kindly neighbor. John was not as willing to be kind to those who were indebted to him as the old man was to him.

This changed one night after he met with a man who was indebted to him. This man was a plowman who could not find work. John had lent the plowman money, with the instruction to pay it back by mid-spring. When the time came, the plowman did not have enough money. The plowman went to John in earnest, begging him for patience with the payment. John was unhappy with this delay and threatened to have the plowman arrested the following morning. The plowman pleaded for mercy, but John would not hear of it. The plowman left in despair, and the farmer went to bed that night with the intention of having the plowman arrested the following morning.

That night John had a dream. He dreamt that he died a rich old man, and was flying up to heaven. However, just as he was about to pass through the golden gates into the Eternal Paradise, Saint Peter stopped him. John did not understand. "I've lived a holy life," the man said. "I made my fortune by honest work and frequented church services. Why will you not let me pass through the golden gates?"

Saint Peter shook his head. "That may be true," he replied. "But you did not forgive an honest man's debt. Have you forgotten your kind neighbor who was patient with you when you needed it? You did not give the kindness that you received in your life. You did not forgive your brother, and now you will not be forgiven." As Peter spoke, John felt himself falling from the heavenly sky, plunging deep into a fiery Hell under the earth.

John awoke with a start. He knew that this was no ordinary dream. It was a sign from Heaven itself. He now knew that he was about to commit a terrible sin. Quickly, he sprang from his bed, dressed himself, and set out to find the poor plowman. He went to his knees before the plowman and apologized for his cruelty. He told the plowman to wait as long as he needed to repay the debt, and the plowman rejoiced and thanked John for his kindness.  
John knew with certainty that he had done the right thing. He knew in his heart that God himself sent him a message, for God was a just and mighty Lord, and only He could show the farmer the righteous path. John was very thankful towards God for saving him from committing sin, and went to church that day to give his thanks. However, he wanted to do something to thank his Lord more fully. These were the thoughts that consumed the man as he walked home from church that day. It was then that the answer came to him. He passed a Jewry outside of town and suddenly the man knew how to thank the Lord. He would spread the word of God to the Jews and to other foolish souls who had not yet been introduced to the ways of Jesus the Savior. John rushed into the Jewry and hollered for all to gather. There he recited the words of Jesus Christ and proclaimed that God was good. He tried to save those who were ignorant of what was holy by preaching the grandeur of God, and dedicated much time to spreading the wisdom he had obtained to those around him, so more persons on earth could know and praise the Lord in the multitudes that He deserved. Praise to the Lord of Heaven.

_Here is ended the Prioress' Second Tale._

* * *

Gingerly, I set the papers down on my desk. I flipped back to the front letter from Chaucer, skimming it over once more. I could not believe what I was touching—an authentic account from Chaucer on his real motives for writing _The Canterbury Tales_, and a continuation of the known story! After Chaucer's death, the Archbishop probably thought that these writings would not be well received because of the political tension the first half had caused. He must have hidden them away and died before the anger that people harbored towards Chaucer died down, never getting the chance to release this into the world. This would change so much about the history behind Chaucer and his works. Critical writings on Chaucer would be rewritten, the attraction would change its course, and classes would be completely restructured to figure in this new information. My head was spinning with excitement. Now the world would finally know what Chaucer's motive was all along!

After a while, I looked up and met the Archbishop's wondering eye. "Well?" he asked eagerly. "It is anything to do with Chaucer? Is it anything important?"

I didn't know quite how to answer him at first. I looked back at the papers, gently tracing the edges with my fingers. I looked back up at the Archbishop, smiled slightly and began to speak. "And here I thought that this would just be another average day."


End file.
